


10.13

by bonebo



Series: Kinktober '16 [13]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Medical Torture, Not a Great Time for Gabe, but it's vague, idk Talon stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: After he’s pulled from the fires in Switzerland, a ruined half-corpse screaming protest, Talon makes sure he knows he is nothing.kinktober 13 - medical play





	

After he’s pulled from the fires in Switzerland, a ruined half-corpse screaming protest, Talon makes sure he knows he is nothing.

They strip him of what meager things he still has--they cut the singed, charred remains of the Blackwatch uniform off his skin, they rip the dogtags from his neck, they shave his face bare. He’s placed in a room of white where everything is bright and pain and he fades, in and out, as they come and go; every time he wakes up, he’s lost something else, black ash collecting on the table under him. Gained something foreign. Needles in his arms, in his hands, tubes running in and out and around. The overwhelming nausea would be a bigger issue if there wasn’t hollow plastic feeding through his nose and into his stomach.

He loses the first two weeks of his recovery to flickering consciousness, the peaceful black embrace that just won’t let him go. He lives his life in scraps of awareness--stretches of time marked only by changes in his pain and never committed to memory. When the void finally does leave it’s chased away by fire, and he comes alive to agony sawing apart his very bones and red visors that blur around him, voices that grind their way into his head to tangle with his half-formed thoughts.

The torture--he hears the visors call it everything from tests to experiments but he’s not an idiot, what remains of his body knows--comes quickly. It’s electrocution and ice baths, vivisections without sedation to prod at his atrophied heart; he knows they want to break him, want to tear him down and rebuild his pieces in a way they see fit, in a way that suits them. He knows what they’re trying to do.

And eventually--after the fourth time he’s regrown a hand from cauterization, or another day spent locked in a tank of water so dark he’s sure he’s died--he stops seeing the point of fighting.

Their knives move quicker over his lax body. The restraints turn from metal to cloth. The dark tank of water is never seen again.

And Reaper becomes a weapon.

 

On his first day of freedom, his first time out in the field to do their bidding, he debates escape. Killing his handlers, running--

But he can’t. He has no place to go--nowhere to hide, not with a face like his--and even if he did, he knows he’s not strong enough. Not yet, because at the end of his missions his steps start to wobble and his head gets light; most days he feels like he’s held together by medical tape and bitterness. He supposes there are worse weapons.

Instead he waits, and he plans, and he broods. Lets go of whatever meager things they haven’t already stripped him of--throws his morals, his hopes, to the wind and lets them be scattered. They are of no use to him now.

But he hangs onto the hate. Keeps it locked up in his chest, a solid thing coiled up tight under his heart. It’s something to keep him warm when the lights go down and the agony returns.


End file.
